A cigarette used to be an invitation to strangers: come over this way, inhale with me. Now, instead, my digits dig deep in my purse for a slick black cell phone and they type meaningless messages to yet more strangers in many other rooms, jokes and quips in 140 characters or less until it’s time to go home.

I know you must get that a lot, and on good days you probably let it slide. You think, “We’re happy and that’s all that matters,” you think, “Some people are just ignorant, but that’s not our problem.”